This chapter is really shit, apologies. Sorry if I take long, but that is due to school. I do work on it during it though. You might not understand the beggining and why he's so angry but hopefully you'll read carefully to see why. I am having the same issue but with my art teacher, I just had to let it oud. Anyways enjoy.

One strike, that's all that ran through my mind. One strike, it was bitter and it stung like salt on ice, and it shouldn't have. It shouldn't have singed like it's still burning now. It shouldn't have stung, I shouldn't have failed, I was in my comfort zone, I was in my haven, I was where I felt I belonged. Yet, those words: One strike, proved me otherwise. They proved to me that no, I was no way in comfort, it wasn't my haven, and no, I most certainly did not belong. But most importantly, those words proved to me that I'm not even close to a grain of salt of good as I thought I was. I believe that was and is what hurt most: feeling unskillful of what I thought I did best. Yet, beyond all the hurt, I can only feel angry. Vigorous..pulsating..straining..anger.

Those damning, condescending words resonate repeatedly against the hallways of my skull. Leering, taunting, boiling my nerves, enraging me, making me sick. My vision clouds with tainted red fog, and my eyes sting, and I am unable to see. All I can see, all I can feel, is the harsh, scathing scab of red, that's been picked at over and over and over, pronoucing it permanent. Blood furiously pounds through my veins, making my head throb violently, I feel the heat of my blood rise under my cheeks and around my neck. I feel sick, I want to throw up, I am infuriated, I want to cause destruction. Instead, I ditch my fourth period, and storm of towards the bathrooms. I lock myself in the last stall, in need of a release, in need of a distraction, in need of an allievator.

I light up my last joint, with shaking hands and stabs of future inevitable regret.Then, I let the weed do its job. And I just let myself forget. With and only with the drug, is when I allow myself to forget and I do: I forget about the reprimands sent to me by my guitar instructor, I forget about my broken guitar strings, and I forget about the humiliation caused by dissapointment in myself. And above all, I forget about my instructors cold, stern voice, and cold, displeased frown, that let me know that I have failed.

Then I black out.........or I think I did, can't be sure though, I must have forgotten.

Once the high wears off, I feel like shit. I feel worn out like a flat tire caused by never ending friction, on second thought I feel like the shitiest car tire known to every automobile in the world. Then again there is no difference....... I check the time on my phone and realize with much indifference, that I have been in the bathroom for an hour, and that I would be hallfway through my fifth period if I were to have gone to my fourth class to begin with. I slowly pick myself -physically and morally- up from the floor and gather my things. Once I exit the last stall I hear a noise that I have not noticed before and stop in my tracks, with shock and possibly fear, and I listen closely. It's a quiet yet screeching, constant, scratching noise that follows an unmistakeable pattern of slow motions, with intervals of silence in between, like half rests on sheets of music. The sound becomes recognizable in the depths of my mind, and I realize it is the sound of metal scraping against metal. For some reason unbeknowst to me I feel irrational fear rise in my stomach, and my heart beat quickening, yet my legs seem to involuntarily move forward without my permission, as if there was nothing that could be lurking around the corner.

When I make it around the corner, I see a familliar figure assembled with a leather jacket and black boots, and my fear dissipates like the releaved sigh that emitted from my lips.
"Holy fuck, you scared the shit outta me." I exclaim, then " Wait, how long have you been here?" I ask
The figure, -or more precisely- Gerard, stops the noise, which was coming from his hands scraping on the counter with a razor knife, by ceasing his motions, and slowly turns his head to adress me.
" I should be asking you the same, I didn't even know anyone was here." He replies with an amused smirk curling his lips.
"Fair enough: an hour or so." I give in, genuinely curious. I seem to find this guy every where I go, eliminating the idea that he might me following me. He looks at me in contained suprised, and I watch him close his razor knife and gently place it inside his jackets' left pocket. I don't know why but I noticed it was left and wondered why left? I find it ridiculous why I didn't even question myself why he had a knife in the first place. But now, that question seems to linger in my thoughts.
"About thirty...fourty minutes." His unceartain reply breaks through my thoughts, and I watch intently as his nose scrunches up in order to think of the exact time. I smile to myself. So then I must have blacked out if I didn't hear him coming inside the bathroom.
I wonder what he was doing here, then I think about the noises he was making, and I walk toward the counter to investigate it. I look down only to see Danzig staring up at me, I chuckle, of course this guy would ditch class to scrape a drawing of Danzig on a bathroom sink. Of course. I'm full of amusement as I look up to smile back at him.
"You like?" He asks chuckling.
"Yes, Danzig man..." I give him a lazy smile, giggling. He smiles back at me lopsided and I notice that we are closer than we were before. I'm not sure who got nearer, but from this distance I can count each individual eyelash of his, I feel irked. He leans his face towards mine, then bends down a bit, and sniffs at my shoulder.
"You smell rank man." He exclaims, extending himself to his full height and backing up two steps to lean against the counter. "How much dope did you smoke?" He asks.
"Just finished the last of it, wasn't much." I give him a sad look
"I could get you some..." He gives me a serious look
"For how much?" I ask, feeling elevated
"Think of it as a recompensation for the lights."
"Ok" I reply. I feel unsure, suspicious.
"You look like shit, wanna ditch?" He asks, hopefull.
"Nah man, I gotta get over with school, this far ahead, might aswell stay." I say, looking for an excuse, it doesn't make me feel as bad as it should, after all, I barely know this guy, and he is creepy.
"It's cool." He says, not looking one bit unfaltered. Good.
Together we make our way out of the bathroom, him holding the door open for me, and before we part our ways, he pats my shoulder and leaves with his infamous, "See you around."

As I make my way through the hallways to my fifth period I think about his knife, about his left pocket, about his offer. And most of all, I think about his ridiculously long eyelashes, and the warm touch of his hand, lingering on my shoulder.